in his deep piercing eyes
his anger i read i almost
nodded my head forced
to beg from an early age
his future all dead sadly
he earned his bread
if he did not earn more
beatings was his dread
left overs he was fed
starched attar scented
kurta pajama clad miyas
gave him few coins
this was charity minus
compassion as they
nonchalantly walked
ahead ..the soul of
poetry watched
helplessly into
the doors of the holy
saints dargah in
oxymoron
haste they fled
